


285 - Australia to London & Radio Love

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: F/M, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 05:43:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15284937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompt “Reader works for triple j and Van sees her when he’s there being interviewed by someone else and likes all the music she picks for her own show but doesn’t get to talk to her because he’s on a tight schedule BUT its all good cause reader has decided to move to London and work with Radio 1 or something?” for kookygrangerMini request for featuring Shot at the Night by The Killers.





	285 - Australia to London & Radio Love

There was glass between you and Van. A wall of it blocked out sounds and left only moving images. You watched him watching you as he walked through the office, on his way to one of the smaller recording studios reserved for one-on-one interviews. He motioned to you and asked Kingsmill something. You didn’t even need to read your name coming from Van’s lips to know they were talking about you. What you didn’t know was he’d been talking about you all day.

Van was excited to be back in Australia. He appreciated Triple J and everything they’d done for Catfish. When he heard he’d be going into the studio for an in-depth interview just prior to album three’s big release, he was stoked. He’d been streaming your shows for a couple of months, taking on your song recommendations and laughing at how you responded to messages from the text line. Van had always worn his heart on his sleeve, so he didn’t keep it much of a secret that he had a crush.

“Fancy that one a bit,” he said to Kingsmill as they walked by. You were live on air, talking about 21st Century Liability and Splendour. “Not havin’ a chat to her then?”

"Y/N? Not today, mate. Maybe she’ll be around when we’re done.”

When Van had come into the Triple J office it had just gone 8 pm. It was the night before the string of shows, and while he had the Kingsmill interview, he was otherwise free. Being a natural romantic, his mind ran wild with all the things he could say and do when he introduced himself to you. But it was 10:36 when he emerged from the studio, voice a little sore from talking so much and energy running high from sitting for so long. He glanced around casually, trying to not seem too desperate.

Your show finished at 10 and you were meeting a friend and her mate for cocktails. The mate was a real estate agent, and you were hoping to get some cheap advice on breaking lease and the London market. Catfish had always been a staple in your musical diet and Van McCann was a cutie if you’d ever seen one, but even he couldn’t come before the opportunity to save money.

…

When he heard the news you were leaving Triple J, Van wanted to call in like a regular listener. He was, for all intents and purposes, a regular listener of your show. He’d not been on as a guest. He was just him, listening to you, and a little bit devastated that he’d not be that for much longer. You hadn’t announced why you were leaving or where you were going. In your mind, it was the clean break you needed to begin your big adventure with your big oppertunity. 

A month later you were standing in your almost-London teeny-tiny flat. It had two rooms. One was the entrance… and the kitchen, lounge, dining, and bedroom. The other was the bathroom, small enough for maybe two people to stand in if they had that type of friendship. Regardless, you loved it and would cherish it. From your teeny-tiny flat you considered calling BBC again, confirm when you should go in on Monday to set up and sort out the contract. That would be weird though. Too eager. Not cool. Definitely not the type of behaviour their new Radio 1 breakfast host.

The wifi was connected. The boxes were (mostly) unpacked. The neighbourhood was scouted. With nothing else to do on a Friday afternoon, you headed into the city alone.

…

Nick had moved onto bigger and better things, but it didn’t stop him from dropping by and haunting the old hood. He came knocking on your desk, tapping out a tune and pulling up a chair.

“Protégé,”

“Irrelevant man,” you quipped.

Nick laughed and shrugged. “Havin’ a little get together on the weekend. Figure you been here long enough we know ya not a psycho, but not long enough that you don’t need ta make friends,”

“Is that an invite because it kinda sounds like… an insult?”

“Ya. See you Saturday. Kimmy will give ya my address.”

And that’s how you ended at Nick Grimshaw’s apartment, holding the most expensive bottle of wine you’d ever bought. He answered your knock after 43 seconds. Breathing out when you recognised a lot of people in the room, you happily made your way to the kitchen to put the wine down and see what kind of food rich people offered at intimate parties.

Leaning over the bench of what you would call ‘finger food’ and others probably had a French word for, you assessed the buffet. Of course, Nick provided the good $hit. When you turned around, your mouth was full of warm cheese puffs and your hand was clasped around a big fishbowl wine glass of something a little bubbly. You knew it was the wrong glass for the drink, but the sheer size and shape of it felt satisfying between your palms.

The sound of the party came through to the kitchen clearly. The music was good and the base was almost vibrating through the floor. If you got a little drunk, you’d definitely swear it was shaking the foundations. Whatever song was playing wasn’t loud enough to force people to awkwardly yell over it though. You could hear happy chatter and different voices.

Before you could step out into the warmth of company, as you turned with your fishbowl wine glass and mouth of puffs, you were rendered immobile. Standing between you and the doorway was Van.

You’d let yourself think about it a few times. What would meeting Van McCann be like? Would he be as charming as he came across in interviews? Would the simple genius of his music translate in his personality? Would that churning carbonated pink lemonade feeling you got in your tummy and in your spine whenever he sung in that low low voice make a guest appearance when he spoke in it too?

With the light from the room behind him shining through into the dimly lit kitchen, Van was illuminated like an angel. His hair was particularly messy and his cheeks were deep pink. Suspecting he’d had one or two, you looked for more signs. Playing detective, you found clues all over him. One of the sleeves of his white button up was rolled up one more time than the other. He’d kicked off his boots at some point already; his socks matched and you didn’t know why you expected them to not. Then, there were his lips. They were stained just a little. Wine red. You’d only notice if you were looking.

“Y/N,” Van said. Your name sounded different coming from him but before you could decide exactly how, you saw the most obvious clue. An empty wine glass was hanging upside down from between his fingers. Van held it with such carelessness that you couldn’t fathom how he got it that far without it shattering. “What… are you doin’ here?” There was a soft shock in his voice that confused you deeply.

“I was invited,”

“But… Australia?” he replied slowly.

“Yeah? I moved… from Australia.” You found your voice mirroring his, the drawn-out syllables making the conversation move at a snail’s pace.

“That’s why you quit at Triple J? You moved? Who invited you? Do you know Nick?”

“No. Ah, yes. Nick. Yes. Sorry, but, we haven’t met before… and you seem-”

“Fuck! Sorry. Probably seem proper weird, huh? I, ah, used to listen to your show a lot. Always wondered where you went. I’m Van,” he said, his speech returning to what was his probable normal. Stepping forward, he held a hand out to shake. The lost, glassy expression shifted from his face and the one you recognised from photos and videos returned.

“Yeah, I know who you are… You listened to my show? Did you stream it?” you asked. Van nodded and smiled. “I… I, ah, got lucky. Someone at Radio 1 scouted me as Nick’s replacement,”

“What? That’s huge! That’s so good! I can listen to ya again. Been missin’ ya voice, see, and you pick the best music to play. Good range,” Van exclaimed, his shoulders bouncing as he spoke.

“I… Ah, thank you. I didn’t know… But, yeah. No. I get a bit less say in what songs I can play here. Breakfast radio isn’t as cruisy as the twilight shift,”

“Sure you’ll still be great. Got into lots of bands because of you. When we was in Australia we had Fountaineer open for us 'cause you mentioned 'em once or twice. And then we got that kid from Doncaster, that little punky one-”

“Yungblud?”

“Yeah! But, ah, what’s his- Dom! Dominic. Yeah. You was fuckin’ spinning his stuff nonstop. He’s real cool, and he’s just a kid,” Van said, the fondness evident on his glowing face.

“He reminds me of you. Lots in common,”

“Really? Like what?” Van asked as he took a mental snapshot of the moment he realised you didn’t just know of him, but knew him.

“Well… You both come from musical upbringings; music’s in your blood. Ah, in interviews, you both talk fast and say a lot and even though it doesn’t always make sense, you both somehow get your point across loud and clear. Very different messages though… Both have that puppy dog excitement. Like meeting new people. Love touring, live shows. Both reckon you’ve got a million songs ready to record,”

“I do! I can prove it! Why don’t anybody believe me?” Van half-whined, half-laughed.

“Uh, maybe because you sat on album three for a fucking decade?” you said, shocked he’d not pieced that together. He laughed and shrugged in acceptance of that truth. “But yeah. I don’t know. You just have similar influences… Similar goodness is you,”

“You think I’m good?” he asked quickly.

Pausing, you watched him grin then look away. He squirmed under your assessing gaze, so moved to refill his glass. “See you got a drink. Ya do know that champagne ain’t meant to be in wine glasses? Pops all the bubbles or something,”

“Is that the science?” you asked, turning your body to track him around the kitchen island. He leaned on it from his side, poking through the food to find the cheesy puffs. You appreciated that he never said anything about your mouth full of them.

“Yeah, love. Definitely. Trust us… So… was gonna just top up and sneak out to the balcony to have a smoke. Did you wanna come with?”

…

When the balcony door opened and someone came out from inside, they brought with them the smell of food and the warmth of indoor heating. It was tempting, but you and Van had sunk deep into Nick’s fancy outdoor lounge, your sides pressed together. Van had smoked two cigarettes and you had watched him in both distaste and attraction. There was a lot about Van that elicited that reaction from you.

“Right, but, like, when you say, 'I don’t really care,’ what exactly do you mean?” you asked him, confused at how he couldn’t have a strong opinion about Brexit.

“I mean… I care… but I don't… I don’t know. Don’t get all riled up about things like that. Not like how other people do. I want everyone to be happy. I want my family to be happy and my mates. Peace and love and all that stuff, but… I don’t know… Never really had a mind for it,” he explained.

“Peace and love?” you echoed, sure that Van could be a better person than he already was. But you wouldn’t try to change him. He wouldn’t, or maybe couldn’t, be changed anyway. You suspected he had popped out into the world exactly who he was and had never wavered from that personality. Authentic, if nothing else. There wasn’t nothing else though. There was a lot.

The person stepped out onto the balcony and looked at you and Van suspiciously. “You guys 'ave been out here for an hour. Bit anti-social, ain’t it?” he teased. Must have been a friend of Van’s.

“That’s not what anti-social means,” you said, annoyed at the constant misuse.

“What do you have in there that I don’t got out here?” Van asked the guy.

“More booze,” he countered.

“Good conversation makes a fine substitute, mate,” Van said with a shrug. You couldn’t help but smile and the guy couldn’t help being defeated. He retreated back into the apartment, probably to report back to the others what was happening.

“Do you think maybe we should go in?” you asked Van, who looked a little outraged that you’d dare suggest.

“Nah. I mean… ya can if you want. But I’m alright here,”

“You’re different to how I imagined you,” you told him, almost by accident.

“How do you mean? Not livin’ up to the rockstar image or something?” he answered with an antagonistic grin.

You just shook your head at him, not taking the bait. “You're… more human.”

Van struggled to understand at first. You looked out over London as his poet’s brain processed. He considered what he wanted to say to that. Finally, he settled on, “I already feel like I know you… I mean, from your show… You know what I mean? So, this just feels like… feels like talking to a mate. But better.”

He’d been doing what you were, looking out over the city as he thought and spoke. Upon utterance of his final words though, he turned to face you and you to him. Looking for what the 'better’ was in his eyes, your brain froze like a kid with a mega-sized Slurpee.

You almost said, “Me too,” when your ears heard, “I love this song.” Catching yourself just in time, you realised it was you that spoke first. A good save from the moment.

Van was nodding, maybe to you, maybe in time with Shot at the Night. “You know, he wrote it in Australia,” he said. “Brandon Flowers did an interview with NME 'bout their greatest hits album. Went through it song-by-song,”

“That’s what I want to do,”

“Interview Brandon Flowers?” Van asked.

You laughed. “Well… yeah, but no. I mean, like, be a proper journalist. Proper interviews. Write,”

“But you’re so good on air! You're… warm…”

“I love it. I really do,” you replied, not sure how to directly respond to Van’s comment. “But I want to write. I don’t even know, like, who for. NME are…”

“Bunch of twats?” Van offered.

“Sometimes. You really hold a grudge, huh?”

“Never did get a proper apology from them,” Van joked, a smug smile playing on his lips after his words came out in a high pitched tone.

Before you could say anything more, the sliding door opened again and Nick’s head popped out. “Alright. That’s enough of this. Get inside before someone catches a cold. Or worse, falls in love.”

Both you and Van avoided eye contact as you stood and followed your host back inside the apartment. For hours, you both drifted from room to room, conversation to conversation, ever aware of each other’s location. By the time people started to kiss each other goodbye and head on out into the early morning darkness, it seemed inevitable to both of you that your nights were not over.

…

“So… It’s gotta mean somethin’, right?” Van asked. You yelped as you jumped out of your skin. What kind of dickhead stands behind an open fridge door, only making themselves known as the door closes? That’s some horror movie bullshit. He laughed and as you caught your breath, he continued. “I was gonna say hello that day I saw you workin’. In Australia, I mean. But you was gone when I got out of the interview… Then you’re here. So, it’s gotta mean something,”

“What does it mean?” you asked, closing the fridge and sighing.

“What were you looking for?”

“Milk. For tea,” you replied.

Van paused and slowly a smile spread across his lips. “Means I think you should give me a shot at the night.”

Was it the confidence that made you laugh or the almost-cringy use of the lyrics? Either way, you didn’t mean the laugh to sound like a giggle and you didn’t mean to make it Van’s favourite sound.

Saying goodbye to Nick and those that remained on his couch, stretched out and heavy with wine and vodka, you and Van slipped out of the apartment at 2:48 am. It was still early for the city of London and there was no shortage of possibilities. Van began to walk down the street and you simply followed along. He took his coat off and draped it over your shoulders, ducking any attempts you made to refuse the gesture. In reality, you weren’t cold enough to justify needing his thick coat, but the heaviness was a reassuring weight and the act itself was thick with meaning.

“Not gonna ask us where I’m takin’ ya?” Van asked. He was a few steps in front of you, weaving a path through people.

“I trust you,” you said back honestly.

Before throwing you a look of feigned mayhem, Van stopped at the curb and hailed a taxi. In the backseat, you leaned into him and let him wrap an arm around you. The silence was comfortable and there was a feeling somewhere in you that one part hope, one part apprehension, one part something else.

It didn’t take long to get to the destination. Van seemed to know the 24-hour café well. He looked so at home sliding into the both and smiling up at the boy who came with menus. You ordered tea for two, and three types of pies. Van watched you, loving the weird authority in your voice when you discussed with the boy the best choices when it came to baked goods.

After filling his tummy with hot tea and apple pie, Van crossed his arms on the table and rested his head on them. Usually, you’d be uncomfortable with someone watching you eat. But there was something pure about Van’s intensity.

“I’m glad you moved 'ere, Y/N,” he said.

You were trying to work out if the blueberry pie had fresh blueberries in it or if they were frozen. Looking over at Van, you smiled and nodded. “And I’m glad we got the cherry and the apple because I am not too keen on this blueberry.”


End file.
